Genius Needs an Audience
by poisongirll
Summary: Sherlock is bored and decides that alcohol is a good distraction.


Just a little fic I wrote awhile ago that I thought I would share. Would love to hear your thoughts :)

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><p>John had just entered the 221B, grocery bags in hand, when he received the text from Sherlock.<p>

_99 Queensway, Bayswater. Get here as soon as you can.  
>SH<em>

There was a certain casual urgency to the text that John had become well acquainted with. But since they weren't working on any major cases at the moment, John found the text slightly puzzling. In fact, since their narrow escape from Moriarty several weeks ago, things had been suspiciously quiet on the crime front. John suspected that the peace wouldn't last long. It never did. He found that the thought didn't bother him, and he idly wondered if perhaps Sherlock's almost indecent enthusiasm towards murder mysteries was rubbing off on him. He had to admit that working with Sherlock was undeniably more exciting than the regular shifts that he'd been doing at the surgery lately.

But whatever it was that Sherlock wanted would have to wait until John had put these groceries away. As he did so, he absently reminded himself of his promise to do a proper grocery shop one of these days, at an actual supermarket, rather than making these daily trips to the off license a block away from the flat. Maybe he could even convince Sherlock to come with him. He almost snorted with laughter at the thought of his eccentric genius flatmate partaking in an activity as mundane as grocery shopping. His imposing figure with its long dark coat, serious expression and intense blue green eyes would look incredibly out of place in the fluorescent isles filled with brands and everyday people. So, on second thoughts, maybe not.

John arrived at the address twenty minutes later, having showered quickly and changed into a warmer jumper and his black jacket to guard against the frost of the London air. He had the feeling that summer wasn't coming to London this year. The black cab stopped outside of a small and fairly unremarkable pub in the busy area. John was momentarily surprised at Sherlock's uncharacteristic choice of a meeting place until he remembered that, even though he'd been living and working with the man for several months now, Sherlock always kept him guessing. It didn't so much bother him as much as it did rouse his intense curiosity towards the man.

John entered the pub and took in his surroundings, eyes sweeping the room for Sherlock. It was a fairly small pub but wasn't without its charms- it was warm, comfortable and quiet, with only a few patrons sitting alone with their pint or conversing with someone beside them in low tones. John could see why Sherlock had chosen it over the other distinctly more rowdy pubs in the area. He spotted Sherlock sitting on a bar stool at the far end of the room. He had removed his coat and scarf in the warmth of the space but still had on an immaculate and expensive looking black suit jacket over his open collared, fitted purple shirt. Sherlock had a drink in front of him, but he seemed more interested in staring into the glass than consuming its contents.

John found the picture highly unusual and, not for the first time, wished that he possessed just a fraction of Sherlock's astounding skills of deduction in order to help him work it out. He had never seen Sherlock drink but had somehow, somewhere along the line, pegged him as a red wine drinker. He was therefore slightly surprised to see the transparent pale liquid in the glass, but made a guess that it was gin. And tonic? No. If he knew anything about Sherlock it was that the man did nothing by halves. It would be straight gin, of a high quality, despite their lack of money, on the rocks. No lemon or lime.

He sighed internally, wondering what catastrophic effects could be achieved in the combination of the self proclaimed "high functioning sociopath" and undiluted alcohol. John hadn't considered such a thing before, assuming perhaps incorrectly that Sherlock was far too serious and in control to partake in the consumption of alcohol or narcotics. But then there had been the time shortly after he had met Sherlock when Lestrade had conducted the drug raid of the flat and Sherlock had more or less admitted to some kind of drug use, the details of which were still unclear to John. He shook the thought off and approached Sherlock, taking a seat on the empty bar stool beside him.

"So what's the big emergency, Sherlock?" he queried without a trace of impatience.

It wasn't like he had anything better to do on a Friday night he thought, only slightly glumly. Sherlock remained silent, acknowledging his flatmate only with a look, and one that John couldn't read at that.

"New case?" John pressed, sounding almost hopeful.

"Not as such," Sherlock replied tonelessly. "Drink?"

He drained the last of his glass and gestured to the bar tender for service. John hid his confusion well. Were they really just here to drink? Like normal people on a Friday night?

"Pint of bitter, please," he said to the bartender.

"And a Bafferts gin on the rocks," Sherlock added, and John felt a certain satisfaction that his assumptions had been correct.

Sherlock handed over a twenty pound note and John turned back to him as the bartender poured their drinks.

"So what exactly are we doing here then?" he asked in the same patient tone.

"Does there always have to be a reason, John?" Sherlock replied, picking up the fresh drink the bartender placed before him and taking a large swallow.

It was then that John realised that Sherlock was already slightly drunk.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" he asked curiously.

Sherlock fixed him with a stare. It wasn't angry or accusatory but more the genuine curiosity that he seemed to fall upon him whenever John asked him if he was okay, as if he was trying to work out if John really cared and if he did, why?

"I'm fine."

"Its just that you're acting a little strangely," John continued. "I've never seen you drink before, despite my best efforts to get you out of the flat for some fun every now and then."

"Alcohol isn't usually my drug of choice."

He took another sip of his drink, giving John a meaningful look. More questions ran through John's mind, but he went with the easiest and most obvious one.

"So why are you drinking now?"

"Bored," Sherlock replied, once again draining his glass.

John took a large gulp from his own. At least it wasn't the wall this time.

* * *

><p>Some indefinable amount of time later, the companions were stumbling out of the pub together into the now quite crowded street. Although Sherlock was certainly the more affected of the two, John was several degrees drunker than he'd intended on being and he was finding it a little difficult to keep himself plus Sherlock upright. John scanned the street with the intention of hailing a taxi, but unfortunately a large crowd of people in a similar state seemed to have the same idea. John sighed and dragged Sherlock away.<p>

"We'll never get a taxi here. We're going to have to walk down the road a bit," he said, only slurring his words slightly, and pulling Sherlock in that direction.

Sherlock complied without argument, too inebriated to really know or care where they were going. John vaguely wondered if that bothered him— he was so used to being in complete control. It had actually been a fun night, John reflected. He had always suspected that Sherlock would make a good drinking buddy, if he wasn't always so focused on a case with no time whatsoever for any distractions. John hadn't clicked with anyone so well in...he couldn't even remember how long. The strange yet instant connection between them meant that they always had plenty to talk about if they wished to talk, and their similar sense of dry, dark humour meant that they made each other laugh. Now however, Sherlock's mood seemed to have descended into something strange and low and almost...sad?

Suddenly Sherlock lost his balance slightly, a gesture far more clumsy than any John had ever seen of him, but John managed to keep them both upright by leaning them roughly against the wall of a building.

"Easy, easy," John said, holding the taller man against the wall in an attempt to steady him.

Sherlock shifted his glance from his own polished shoes to John's face, and once again John felt the full weight of his gaze, its intensity only marred slightly by the effects of the alcohol. His changeable eyes were an intriguing shade of pale blue tonight.

"Thank you for helping me," Sherlock slurred, gripping John's forearms tightly and not taking his eyes off John's.

John smiled slightly awkwardly— the words sounded strange coming from this man whose casual arrogance he had gotten so used to and even fond of.

"You're welcome, Sherlock," he replied, patting his arm reassuringly and gazing down the street for a taxi they might be able to hail.

But Sherlock shook him slightly, trying to regain his attention. John turned back to him, eyeing him curiously.

"Not just for tonight, John," Sherlock admitted quietly, looking at his shoes again.

He paused, obviously having trouble finding the words that he very rarely said.

"Thank you for staying and for...being my friend."

John was suddenly struck by how vulnerable, how fragile the detective seemed at this moment. It was like the strong and occasionally downright hostile mask that he wore constantly had slipped somewhat, revealing a new side of this amazingly complex character. He thought, not for the first time, that the mask was at least partially a defence mechanism. Maybe Sherlock was afraid to let people in, afraid of being hurt by them, rejected by them, abandoned by them. He was so different. So unique. John knew that people can't always handle individuals like that. Hell, he'd seen it. He wondered again about Sherlock's past and felt a slight twinge in his heart at the pain he suspected the man had gone through.

A huge surge of affection and empathy rushed through him, even though he knew Sherlock would hate having anyone feel sorry for him. Nonetheless, John had the sudden absurd desire to protect him, to hold him. He caught himself at that last thought as it hit him with a force like a punch to the face. Since when did he want to hold any man? He was straight...wasn't he? He pushed the thoughts away. He couldn't deal with them right now. Couldn't quite admit to the intensity of the connection between them, or to his strange but growing affection, and attraction, towards the detective. John caught Sherlock's face with one hand, tilting his chin up to so his eyes met John's.

"You're welcome," he repeated softly. "I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

Sherlock nodded minutely and allowed himself a small smile. Then he did something that John was really not expecting. Still gripping John's arms, he lent in and pressed his lips to John's. John froze, head swimming at the sensation of the full, warm lips on his and it took his brain a moment to catch up. Then, possessed by the insanity of the evening, of the moment, of his senses being so unexpectedly and abruptly surrounded by all things so indefinably _Sherlock_, he kissed him back.

It was a light, tentative kiss but one that made John feel warm despite the freezing night air. He found himself inexplicably wanting more - wanting to wrap his arms around Sherlock, touch him, taste his mouth - and he clung to the frail excuse that it was the alcohol he'd consumed that was making him feel this way. An all too brief slide of tongues against each other, then they were breaking away from each other when a group of people on the other side of the street whistled loudly in their direction. John vaguely registered that his feelings now were that of utter disappointment. He hadn't been ready for their kiss to end.

"Oh look, a taxi," Sherlock said suddenly, stumbling towards the road with a dazed and confused John in tow.

Back at 221B Baker Street, John struggled to get them both up the stairs. Although the night air and the cab ride seemed to have sobered Sherlock up slightly, he was still in no state to look after himself (was he ever, John found himself thinking). John led him to the couch and Sherlock landed on it heavily, lying on his back. John sighed and pulled off his own coat, throwing it aside before tackling Sherlock's. His flatmate appeared to be barely conscious as John stripped him of it carefully, also removing his shoes.

John found himself grateful for Sherlock's inattention, since he was sure that he blushed slightly as he untangled the scarf from Sherlock's warm, delicate neck. He considered the man for a moment— his pale face with its unusual but strikingly beautiful features, the flawless skin, the soft full lips. John stopped himself there, wondering exactly when it was that he'd gone completely insane, and turned to fetch a blanket and some water for his friend. But before he could, Sherlock caught his arm, pulling him lightly back towards the couch.

"Stay with me."

It wasn't a command, or even a request. It was more of a statement whose tone John could not quite read. John turned back to him with a small smile. He had long since realised that there was almost nothing he would deny Sherlock.

"Okay. I'll be right back."

He retrieved the quilt from his own bed and brought it downstairs, throwing it over Sherlock, and perched on the edge of the couch beside him, watching him closely. John could tell that Sherlock wasn't far off passing out, but the detective still reached out for him, softly calling his name.

"It's okay, I'm here," John replied quietly, stroking the wild mass of curls soothingly.

He wished he knew what went on in that amazing mind of his. Was the spontaneous drinking session born out of Sherlock's boredom, or something more? Did Sherlock even get sad? Of course he must, John thought, chiding himself for his constant assumption that Sherlock was something other than human and therefore immune to the trivial emotions that went along with it. Eventually Sherlock fell asleep, still clutching John's arm lightly. And although John couldn't quite remember when exactly he had lied down, he fell asleep beside him.

The next thing John remembered was waking up to light that was too bright, a dull but persistent ache present in the front of his skull. Disorientated, John half sat up and blearily took in his surroundings, trying to remember why he was on the couch in their living room. Sherlock stood before him, fully dressed, with a mug in his hand which he offered to John. Oh.

"The tea will help. Then you need to get dressed— Lestrade has asked us to come to the station immediately," Sherlock informed him, excitement tangible in his voice at the promise of a new mystery to solve.

John blinked, willing his brain to wake up, inwardly cursing the fact that Sherlock appeared to be completely unaffected by last night's binge.

"Thanks," he replied, accepting the mug from Sherlock carefully.

John took a sip of the tea (it was just the way he liked it) and subtly studied Sherlock, who drained the last of his own mug and put it back down on the coffee table. His mask seemed to be well and truly back in place, and any trace of the vulnerability John had witnessed last night was carefully concealed once again. Did Sherlock remember the events of the night before? Did he remember the - John felt his face grow warm - kiss?

"Of course I remember John, I wasn't that intoxicated," Sherlock said suddenly, impatiently, abruptly drawing John out of his reverie.  
>John stared at him blankly and Sherlock rolled his eyes.<p>

"You were wondering if I remember kissing you," he said without a trace of shyness or awkwardness.

It was clearly intended as a statement, not a question.

John opened his mouth to ask how Sherlock could have possibly known that, but he gave up, having long ago accepted that Sherlock was practically a bloody mind reader. He wanted to point out that Sherlock had obviously been intoxicated enough to kiss him, despite his previous insistence that he considered himself "married to his work", but thought better of that too. Instead he settled for awkward throat clearing and taking too large of a gulp of his tea, which sent him into a fit of coughing and spluttering. Was he really having this conversation? Had he really kissed a _man_? Yes, his mind supplied matter-of-factly.

But it wasn't that simple. This wasn't just any man...this was _Sherlock_. Fearless, honest, mad, infuriating, intriguing, charming, beautiful, _brilliant_ Sherlock. John sighed aloud without really meaning to. Sherlock seemed to take pity on John's struggle with the situation, and his eyes softened slightly.

"We can talk about this later," he offered, his voice practical but gentle. "Right now we have a case to solve."

His lips quirked as if to show John that there was no need to feel uncomfortable. And with that Sherlock was up and out the door, leaving a bewildered and still slightly dazed John in his wake. John shook his head, taking one final gulp of his tea, and got up to get dressed. No, he was certainly never bored.


End file.
